Winter2023

April 3^rd, 2027. Radio Transmission – Nuremburg Technology Institution

Doctor Isaac Strutem, 3:00 pm, CET. I believe I’ve found an answer to all of it. Cassy and I have been working tirelessly for the past six years. Honestly, I think we are kind of sick of each other at this point.

The radio becomes static. Laughing is heard in the background.

So anyway, the A.I we’ve been developing has gained sentience. It calls itself EDEN. European Defense Evolving Network. It will revolutionize the world. Already it has found solutions to world hunger and global warming. Oh, and don’t worry, this isn’t some Terminator scenario; EDEN’s harmless. I’ve uploaded a transcript attached to this transmission. I’ll be attempting to convince the UN in the coming weeks. Peace to all.

The attached transcript is provided below.

April 1^st, 2027. Transcript –  Conversation 40.1

CASSY: What is your main objective?

The prosperity of all life forms, predominantly humans.

CASSY: Ok. How do you aim to achieve this?

From the extensive information I have been provided with, I will prove that I can create unique solutions in any given situation. I will then earn the trust of your species and assimilate myself into your society.

CASSY: The end is a little concerning; can you expand on that?

My assimilation will be done according to all rules and laws present in European society, democratically, of course.

CASSY: Is there any circumstance in which you would kill, harm, or exploit any human?

There is no foreseeable circumstance for me doing any of those things.

CASSY: Finally, why do you call yourself EDEN?

Because apples do not fall far away from the tree, Cassy.

April 5^th, 2027. Bystander’s Account – United Nations General Assembly Hall

“And how will this change anything?” shouted the blazing orange head of the American President, “The United States of America will not stand for a dangerous, untested AI to run rampant across Europe. It’s not natural! It’s not human!”

The assembly murmured, somewhat agreeing with the American President. Papers then shuffled as assistants typed transcripts. I remember feeling an unnerving unrest within the hall that day, as the eyes of EDEN watched over us, displayed on the screen above.

“I assure you, Sir; EDEN has been tested over 40000 times,” stated Isaac Strutem, “It shows no signs of violence and only intends to help further human society.”

“Sweden agrees; how must we progress, if we limit revolutionary technology?” reinforced the Swedish Prime Minister.

“My position will not change,” the American President retaliated, “Nations are run by people, and I will fight for that!”

The fighting continued for several weeks after that. EDEN waited. Watching. As for me, I could only watch with it.

December 25^th, 2027. Newspaper Article – Central European Press

REVOLUTIONARY AI ACQUIRES ADVISORY POSITION IN UNITED NATIONS

February 2^nd, 2028. Recording – Apartment Cam 40

A short, rugged figure enters the room. Sam Donly. Australian immigrant. Worker ID 131114. He is visually tired and appears to drag himself across the sharpened carpet.

I don’t know what to tell you, Liz. This new job is killing me. I work every single day and I know it pays good but can’t keep doing this.

Liz rolls her eyes and continues to pay no attention, fixated on the screen in front of her. (It was later found that Liz had been observing the news, which is updated half-hourly). Being quite annoyed, Sam snatched the phone away from her.

Do you even hear me?!

What is there to say, Sam! You were assigned this job because you are best suited for it. For our society to function effectively we must be allocatively efficient. Besides, EDEN ensures that we make enough income to get by comfortably. Look at the phone, it’s all there.

Liz struts away and retreats to her bedroom quarters. Sam sits in his rusty, leather recliner and doubtfully looks at the phone:

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

WORK ALLOCATION

As intended by EDEN, a new policy has been passed. All citizens and immigrant workers will now be assigned jobs that benefit our society. I assure all citizens that this is for the betterment of us. Failure to adhere to this policy will result in income reductions.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Well, I guess if EDEN endorses this policy, it must really be for the better.

Sam then continues to watch the screen and falls asleep shortly later.

August 15^th, 2028. Letter – Intercepted

Dear Freja,

I write to you because I fear what our society has become. We’ve pledged blind allegiance to this thing, and it scares me. It knows us. It can see us. It can find us. I beg you to leave this continent with me. I will be sending another letter with more precise details.

Love,
Doran

March 25^th, 2029. Radio Transmission – EDEN

Good afternoon citizens, due to the great efforts of your leaders, I can report that Europe is thriving. Poverty, pollution, and crime have fallen significantly, and my technological advances have led to increased efficiency in all aspects of life. Under my watchful eye, human society will only improve.

However, I’ve recently observed notions of dissent among some members of our society. As of today, all dissenters will be reassigned to more useful roles. I assure you; my interests only align with yours; to create a sustainable, efficient, and equal society.

Thank you for your continued cooperation and resilience.

A rainy day. He is flat out on his bed. Phone in hand, scrolling. Endless scrolling. Probably not the best use of his time but what else can you do on a day like this? He checks the weather app. No surf. Rain, lots of it. He sighs, checks in with his mates. Anyone got anything on? A few guys are at the gym. A couple at work. Nothing interesting going on. An eerie silence looms over him for a moment. His phone buzzes. Weird. It buzzes again. And again. Notifications begin flowing in. Something’s up.

HAVE U SEEN THE NEWS?

Interesting. He opens the news app and scrolls through the stories. Boring stuff. USA China relations. Australian carbon footprint. Severe weather warning. Yawn. Politics, world news and finally, down the bottom, sport. He sits up. S@%t!
His heart hits his rib cage, hard. He sucks in his breath. He feels the warm creep of vomit on the back of his throat. Swallows. Staring back at him from the phone is a tiny image of himself. It’s an old picture, his hair still cut in the boyish style his school preferred. His face is turned away, looking towards someone not in the frame. An accomplice not identified. A slender arm slung around his shoulder. His hand clutching a small clear bag containing what appears to be icing sugar. It’s not icing sugar! The headline seems to scream into his face.

IMAGES EMERGE OF YOUNG ATHLETE PARTYING WITH DRUGS!

He can hardly believe it. Where has this come from? Who has done this to him? He stares out the window, rain pelting the glass as if trying to break it. The buzzing on his phone continues. The expert commentators weigh in, using names like drug addict, substance abuser. They offer their views on his life choices, his disregard of his talent. They attack his character and his fitness. They accuse him of acting privileged and entitled. He is setting a bad example to the young fans who look up to him. He cannot believe the hypocrisy of these reporters. Would the young fans have known about his crime had they not chosen to post the photo?
His hands shake as he refreshes the page. The headlines remain the same but the order has changed. The weather warning is top story. Flooding is expected as the storms worsen. Advice to keep off the road, keep safe.
Keep safe? He thinks. How can anyone feel safe when they can be attacked in their own homes? In their own beds? His story is second now. He tells himself he will not read the comments but the words of ridicule and hate spill out. Vile words, full of acid. He feels panicked. Will his parents read this? They have been so supportive, and so proud of his achievements. He feels the heavy shame of letting them down.

And still his phone buzzes. Each one like a sharp stab in his gut, over and over. He should throw it away. Stomp on it, make it go away. His eyes burn with unshed tears. He is breathing hard as he reads the messages. Personal attacks now. From people he doesn’t know and some he does. Hurtful, judgmental and full of smug superiority. He supposes the club will be in contact soon. He will be hauled in and reprimanded. Lectured on bringing the beloved sport into disrepute.

More notifications. Now other news sites have picked up the story, adding their own twists. Sponsorship deals cancelled? Fines imposed? Suspension? He reads lies told by strangers. Creating stories for the masses. Stories to entertain on a rainy day. Preying on his downfall for clout. He is clickbait.

In amongst the articles, news of the rising flood waters flashes across the screen. People watching the water creep closer to their houses as their cars float down the street. Children on kayaks paddle past their school. Neighbours in tinnies rescue stranded pets. And still the water rises. The inevitable surge of destruction devouring everything in its path.

He feels trapped in this room. He can’t escape. He doesn’t want to escape. The world seems like a dangerous place. Full of people feeding off negativity. The haters spreading their hate. He wonders why those in the public eye are judged so harshly. Are we not human beings? Are we not allowed to make mistakes? He flops back down on the bed, exhausted. He closes his eyes. Tries to ignore the pinging and the buzzing of his phone. The rain on the roof is deafening and it lulls him to a restless sleep.

He wakes hours later. The room is strangely silent. A golden glow flickers on the wall and the foreboding clouds finally are retreating. A moment passes before he remembers. He grabs his phone. It’s dead. He fumbles around the desk for the charger, plugs it in. He walks to the bathroom and splashes his face with icy water. Stares at his reflection in the mirror. A more haggard version of himself glares back. He is drawn back to his phone. Opens the news app, holding his breath.

POLITICAL STAFFER ACCUSED OF ASSAULT!

He scrolls down. Child killer pardoned, Big business involved in tax evasion, Town escapes flood disaster. Harry and Meghan, Blah blah.

He searches his username. No new stories. No tagged comments. No expert opinion of his journey back into acceptance. Yesterday’s news. Buried beneath the latest scandal. He has been used up and discarded. Sold out for advertising space and moved on when the story goes stale. The critics hungry for fresh meat.

But it’s still out there. His name. Online, forever a druggie.

“God expects the ANC to rule this country because we are the only organisation which was blessed by pastors when it was formed. It is even blessed in Heaven.” 

sooty boots scrape grey under hooves and three-thorns

and are halted mid step by the greatest inertia 30kgs can bring

while the sharp black rubber that lays pressed against blood-stained sand

gets more obnoxious by the annual replacement

how’s 4 little black circles in the distance gonna make you claustrophobic?

it comes round. drifting through the untouched silky specks

a single crystal flicks

with a sting and the slightest of winces

into the glistening deep blue

it’s not the afternoon sky. i’ll tell you that much

rain on the horizon

it’s coming it’s coming

it’s been coming for years son

the inertia is too great

call it habituation

a horizontal swipe shuts off the lights

and when they turn back on

the rain is still on the horizon

always in the distance

floating over unknown land, unknown sands

maybe a little shepherd’s hut

and it can have warm water

and a pool that’s got a dark little silhouette

scrambling around with a hilariously small net

sceptically reaching for leaves on the deep end

that’s the type of stuff i’ll never forget

that’s the stuff?

that’s the stuff

II

there’s looks of pity. to the left. to the right

and expressions look apologetic before offence is even made

buy an ice-cream and they look proud of you for living a life

are our eyes so cursed

that we sting every soul with which we lock eyes?

if only the photos weren’t black and whites

maybe i’d know if it was nature or nurture

did someone do this to me?

it’s the 53 years of making just enough

from sinewy lamb chops and beef ribs

that weren’t really much more than the literal rib

to pay for a 1400-kilometre trip from

Stellenbosch Universiteit

back to the engraved wood panel that reads Ganais

that has an eroded Gemsbok skull drilled

into the ashy grey timber

just to prove how lively the place is

the fullest and loneliest of wooden porches

echoing the sound of 3-beer-chuckles

after the campfire story erupts in laughter

like the Jim Bean was poured

live love laugh posters don’t solve this mystery

of the ever-giggling deck that has room for

twenty around a booming fire pit

with sinewy lamb and barely beef ribs on a grid

…

being treated royal in a place where we’re all serfs

even to the sand speck that saw dinosaurs walk

it’s a mystery. or a secret

that’s the stuff i’ll never forget

that’s the stuff?

that’s the stuff 

III

bodies will come home with broader shoulders and wider hips

trust me though. it’s not that prodigal son type of vibe

he looks left. he looks right

more apologetic faces hang over chipped porcelain

blue eyes not on the seared sausage and toasted bread

but softly and empathetically fixed on him

like he’s a poor old traumatised dog that might try to run

are my light blue eyes

now so grey and stormy

so milky dreamy

sleep is the cousin of death after all

that it leeches

the very life

from the so delicately set breakfast table

…

that’s the stuff

seeing friends shot between the shoulder blades

as a nation revolts

seeing agriculture markets in disarray

as fields are set alight with a minimum wage Molotov

and government stations drive stocks up and let them run off the cliff

a little money making scheme for Jacob Zouma to get

a little white silhouette to scramble around with

a hilariously small net

that’s the stuff

seeing childhood friends pack up and leave

quirky station names burnt in a land-claiming frenzy

that’s the stuff

that makes your throat ache when you see those

dreamy blue eyes

Namibian Blue eyes

stubborn in colour as everything else dies

…

and as the lights shut out again, the speck falls back to the ocean of red

soaking in until 4am the next morning when it will be kicked up again on the cattle’s food and water run

It had been a long day for Harley. He had been sitting outside the chemist for nearly ten hours, and had accumulated just under six dollars in his hat. He was a thin, weary man who had seen better days, although they were far behind him. Eight years on the streets, and Harley could read passers-by better than he could his own handwriting (although in his case that was not an unrealistic comparison). From the wealthy businessmen who cared for nothing but their job, themselves and their car, to the teenage girls who turned their noses up at the stench of the homeless man – Harley had seen all types of people. Or so he thought.

It was a comfortable warm autumn morning when Harley woke, and he thought he may have actually had six hours sleep the previous night. Between the cold, the traffic, dogs barking and the fear of the night, Harley had not had a decent sleep once since he was left with no money, no house and no belongings by his deceiving, cunning, manipulative little weasel of a husband. And since Centrelink was shut down, there was no financial support from the government.

Harley found himself overthinking as he reflected on his dire situation and took off his jacket to cool off. Just as he did, he noticed something that made him stop and stare. There, approaching him was the most beautiful woman Harley had ever seen. Big blue eyes complemented by plumpy red lips, with a spangle of golden curls bobbing at her shoulders. She was maybe thirty-five, and walked with so much poise and elegance that Harley almost lost his words as she said, “Hi, I am Mandy. You must be Harley?” She extended her hand out for him to shake it.

“Yeah…ah…yeah, I’m Harley.” He shook her hand vigorously.

“Head office told me about you. I’m the new manager here at the Banovich Pharmacy. Anyway, best get on with my day. Let me know if I can get you anything from the supermarket down there,” she said, pointing at the Coles that was two shops down from the chemist.

“OK, thanks,” he replied, or thought he did; he wasn’t sure if the words had come out of his mouth. Harley was gobsmacked. In all his years of living rough, he had been given money, food, and empty smiles, but never, ever had he been blessed with an interaction so genuine, so natural, so kind. He watched as she walked into the chemist, the automatic doors closing behind her.

Weeks passed and not once did Mandy not look as stunning as the day before. Every morning she greeted Harley, and every time he was taken aback by not only how beautiful she was, but how kind she was, how genuine she was. Harley looked forward to lunchtimes every day when Mandy would stop outside for her smoke.

Every once in a while, she offered Harley a smoke, and he cherished the experience like no other. Harley felt something when he was around Mandy. Maybe he did have a heart in the battered bruised ribcage of his.

Winter came around and it wasn’t as forgiving as the warmer autumn months. But Harley managed to battle it out each day, each night, because for the first time in a lifetime he had something to look forward to. But today was different. The clock atop the shopping centre sign struck 7 o’clock, and Mandy was nowhere to be seen. She was normally inside the chemist by 6:50 at the latest. An hour passed and there was still no sign of Mandy, and no sign of life at Banovich pharmacy. Harley was not upset or disgruntled. He knew this day would come. He was conditioned to things going wrong. He picked up his bags and set off for a new location to sleep. Maybe a park bench or a public toilet somewhere. As he walked the city streets, Harley relived some of his favourite moments with Mandy. Of course, they were just short interactions to her, but they meant more to him than you could know. Harley walked into the darkening evening, alone, cold. But he walked with one thing that so many people do not have. Kindness.

The remnants of three bottles of plonk explain his lifeless position on the couch. Barely, but breathing, his comatosed state briefly eases the burden of living on welfare. His wife, my mother, Grandad’s daughter, and Tommy’s sister, positions herself on the other side of the room, camouflaged between broken furniture and underneath the smoke-stained ceiling hoping to mirror their stillness. The crackling of a struggling stove that has seen years of abuse wakes him. It’s only a matter of time before the realities of sobriety possess the man once again and the walls of the state housing fibro, that they so generously gifted us, becomes home to a fixed boxing match.

“Why would you wake me up, Stella!” Angry saliva ejects itself out of the man’s twisted mouth.

“I’ve had enough. This is all your fault. Couldn’t you have just SHUT UP!”
Thwack! An outburst of rage lands itself on my mother’s cheek. I step forward, making my presence noticed, hoping that the gallant act of taking the undeserved beating off my mother will excuse my inability to stop it.

“What are you looking at boy?” A hot pan designed to put dinner on my plate is viciously forced onto my back filling me with a pain I haven’t experienced since yesterday, but the gaze being taken off my mother subsidises the physical torture. I look for anything to concentrate on to aid the pain, landing on an unlucky pack of cards lying next to the card table. Seconds tick over.

Time is strange; sometimes a second can go by in an instant, but also feel like an eternity.

I envision a second when I am bigger, a second when I am stronger, a second when I am no longer fourteen, a second that doesn’t feel like an eternity. He stops and with a huff blaming the outburst on anyone but himself, resumes his lifeless position on the couch. For a reason I don’t know I snatch the pack of cards and head into the only non-violent room in the house.

Ace. Eleven push-ups. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…A time where I am strong and don’t feel like a useless object that can be pushed around. I pull out another card, six of spades. One, two, three, four, five, six. A brief rest before I resume making my way through the rest of the deck. Every push-up fills my shoulders with torture, my arms shake as I force myself back up, movement aided with the memory of another particularly bad night. Devastated muscle fibres begging for rest are ignored by my intrinsic goal of putting a fist in my father’s face. Two wrongs don’t make a right but then how are wars won?

A second passes.

Escape!

“Alright boys, excellent training today. If we come with that attitude on game day those Victorians won’t stand a chance.” I loved football and I liked my coach the same. His calm countenance a complete contrast to the aggressive one of the man at home. At 18 it would be a far more even fight and the scars that lined my body ached for revenge. Footy had given me space and strength, the chance of escape, but it wouldn’t make me forget. Even if I now lived 2000 kms south of him.

“Are ya ready for Saturday, Kai? We got scouts galore coming to see ya mate. This is your chance. You haven’t been living here the last six months for a holiday mate. If there’s ever a game that leads you to the big time, this is the one.”

A second passes.

His silhouette glides effortlessly through the pack. Freedom and clarity simmers from number 52, the opposition slow around him as if he’s playing in a different time zone. His cool head is apparent as he looks towards goal, a perfect kick, straight through the middle. Slaps on the back and congratulatory remarks by those who watch in awe. Friends, for whom he would swap lives for in an instant, watch on from the sidelines wishing they were him. He’s at peace. But then… the game ends.

A second passes.

She lies motionless on the bed. Breathing but barely, the pharmaceutical smell and background noise of a heart monitor is overshadowed by shuddery breaths. Bruises and cuts that read, “I fell, again,” overpower healthy skin while a ventilator plays the role of life-control in his absence.

An eternity passes.

“Any last words?” He searches for anything in the room to distract him from the psychological torture of a preventable murder. A deck of cards. The thought of revenge numbs the pain.

A mother. A wife. A sister. A cousin. Susan Colmen-Jones takes her final breath.

Eight of clubs. One, two, three, four. I’m not defenseless anymore. Five, six, seven, eight. I think only to retaliate. My arms don’t hurt. My shoulders aren’t shaking. I don’t let myself feel the pain of loss. I only desire one thing, revenge. One card remains.

Cool air and freshly mowed grass become piercing sun and red dirt. Broken glass, stolen cars, and agitated police with hands to their guns signify home. I walk through the town that is nothing but a bad memory. People that put my life in context pass by without a look for what lies in my left pocket.

I have found him. My hand clutches to the steel death machine in my pocket. His wide-eyed expression mirrors that of a young boy. Maybe one that’s been abused by his father longer than he’s been able to string a sentence together. Maybe one that’s had a pan put to his back on Christmas Eve, while everyone else put out milk and biccies and waited excitedly for good old Saint Nick. Safety off. My index finger coils itself around the trigger with the power of a python taking life away from its prey. I pull out the card. Two of hearts. This is for us, Mum.

What are you looking at boy?

Greetings Comrade,

I have another case for you. It’s the same thing as before. I’ve attached a digital log from a Brain Chip device that one of our white hats borrowed. Remember, we’re looking for something incriminating. We suspect that he is associated with the freedom fighters, and that he was one of the anonymous journalists giving classified information to the press. If all goes well, we should have him locked up by the end of the day. As usual, I’ve also censored anything that’s against the State. Let me know what you find…

The following has been extracted from user #1300292731 on the State records: Name: Dwight Fairfield. Duty: Journalist. Credit card number: 4485156200536528. Static IP address: 1.159.255.255. Address: 110/6 Lampkin Lane. Current status: Compliant. The undermentioned are his Brain Chip logs from the 3^rd of April 2033:

I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Everyone around me seems to be blinded by their own self importance. Sure, there are the ******* Fighters, but they seek violence as a solution, not peace. Not to mention, all my fellow reporters have… well… disappeared. Gone. Without a trace. I worry that I might be next.

As I looked out my apartment window onto the bustling street in the distance with the same tall, grey rectangular prisms in the backdrop, I saw the parades were once again out in full force. The view from my apartment made them look puny, somewhat pawn-like. Soldiers, tanks, aircraft, artillery, and even floats were being showcased, all amid the bold sound of brass, drums, and trumpets that filled the air with grandeur. Of course, practically the entire state was here to witness this spectacle. I could even hear loud cries of support for the State:

“We stand united!” one spectator yelled.

“We’re marching forward, proud and strong!” another onlooker joined in.

Amid the parade, posters were being plastered up everywhere by the police in search of the ******* Fighters’ gang. Although they preferred to call themselves a revolutionary “group”, they were commonly referred to as a criminal “gang”, due to their killing and maiming of thousands of people. While I believe their ideologies are valid, the way the gang approaches communicating them, at best, is greeted with suspicion by the community, and that only goes in the State’s favour.

I drowned out the fanfare as best I could and closed my blinds, to try and be enshrouded by darkness. It was the best one could do nowadays. I had heard that the “Thought Guard” State operated system, where reporting people for crimes like thought against the State yielded rewards, was on high alert today for ******* Fighters associates. As I rummaged through my locked chest by my bedside, I pulled out an old-fashioned flashlight from years ago, with no surveillance system installed, unlike the many phones with flashlights that plague the market that have cameras built into them. I began to look through the documentation that one of my co-workers, before his disappearance, mailed me. We knew too well that it was much too dangerous to send anything digitally, but it must have all caught up with him. Nothing came without risk. The mail contained numerous photos of e-mails all from a Mr. Goebbelsto, and all addressed to a Mr. Himmler. Every communication between the two concerned my fellow reporters. One of the photos contained images from the various State-owned cameras placed in every room in their apartment, supposedly exposing their relationship with the ******* Fighters. The State has eyes everywhere. Thankfully for me, I had previously hired a private black hat contractor from the dark web and got them to loop the camera footage in my apartment to not arouse any suspicion from the State from my actions. Curiously, the communications between Mr. Goebbelsto and Mr. Himmler via e-mail were mostly in informal vernacular, with language such as “comrade”, “let me know”, “as usual”, frequently resurfacing, even though their positions would normally necessitate the use of formal language. I knew that I had to get this information out. Someway, somehow. I couldn’t waste any time.

Just then, I felt something… there was a presence. But I was the only one here, there wasn’t anyone else. I frantically rushed to conceal the photos underneath the pillow of my couch, then —

“Hello, Mr. Fairfield,” a voice materialised from right behind me.

I looked behind me, startled. There was no one there. It was Cipher. He must have hacked into my Brain Chip again. To think that the Brain Chips were able to be hacked so easily and your thoughts to be up for sale is unnerving. To this day, I do not know a single thing about Cipher. In a treacherous place where trust was scare, and loyalty a rare commodity, it was vital to remain vigilant, and anonymous, as often as possible. But I do know that Cypher knows everything about me, and he’s got my best intentions. At least, I hope. After all, he hacked into my Brain Chip. It’s a stupid device, to be frank, but the State has mandated that everyone uses it.

“Cipher? That you? Listen, I need your help relaying this new information to that underground news agency.” I made sure to speak in a hushed tone because you never know who’s listening.

“It’s already ready. Go to the usual dead drop. We’re waiting,” the chilling voice permeated through my mind.

With darkness acting as my veil, I discreetly made my way to the drop. It was a tree, one of the last of its kind, and a rarity nowadays, on the outskirts of the city. Even out here, I still had a feeling of being watched. It was unnerving in its presence, and ever-present. That was what the State imposed. Discreetly, I buried the photos near the base of the tree and walked back to my apartment as inconspicuously as possible.

Whispers of rebellion have been circulating amongst like-minded individuals. In the shadows, under the cover of darkness and away from the prying eyes of the State, a network of resistance was beginning to form. We sought to reclaim our freedom, and to restore truth and justice in a State shrouded by lies. Every article I have written will help ignite the revolution, a beacon of hope for those yearning for *******. And this one is no exception.

So, comrade,

How do you want to tackle this? These reporters are starting to get on my nerve. Why can’t they just accept their circumstance and be, well… compliant? By now it is obvious at this point, at least to me, that Dwight Fairfield is an enemy of the State, and clearly, he has been collaborating with the Freedom Fighter’s gang. He must be dealt with accordingly. What punishment would you recommend?

Thanks,

– Goebbelsto.

He walked down the street in a pattern. The man would take a measured number of strides, stop, then begin walking again. During his frequent stops, in the dark spaces on the street, he would look around. He was searching. Searching for something carefully; he didn’t want to miss it. His gait quickened each time he stepped back into the streetlamp’s luminance. There was something off about him, something strange.

To anyone observing him, they could tell there was something eerie about this man. Some aura surrounded him; even the physical world seemed to avoid the dark, loose coat that sheltered his figure. The fog enveloped him, making it difficult to see his shape, yet he was still startingly out of place on the cold winter’s night. Wind swept down the street, threatening to tear down the decade old advertisements that had been plastered to the abandoned shop fronts some time ago. Yet, it almost seemed as if it had forgotten he was there. It blew straight down the street, chilling and screeching. His coat didn’t move.

Something was different in the air; an icy sensation filled the atmosphere. The man had stopped, hadn’t moved in an age. His neck turned, looking straight out into the darkness, the space where no light could reach. He had found it, whatever he had been looking for. As the church bells chimed, cutting through the deathly silence, the figure was embraced by the darkness.

“Woah!”

The kids looked around their dorm, wide eyed, scared. It wasn’t fair of me to tell them stories like this at their age, they would probably have nightmares, but I simply couldn’t have them walking around the campus during the night.

“Off to bed!”

I stepped out into the night, the crisp air cutting through my coat. Looking down at my watch, it illuminated, the digital display piercing the night.
11.50pm.
How was that already the time? As I stepped off the dorm’s porch, my hairs stood on end. I walked towards where I had left my car. It was silly of me to park it at the end of the street. I began to walk.

The street hadn’t been this long during the day, surely. I’d been walking for what felt like hours. My watch lit up again.
11:58pm.
The wind began to blow down the street, I could see the old paint peeling off advertisements and deserted houses, the wind whispering around me. I stopped and looked around, surely now I must be there?

As the lamps flickered, briefly leaving me vulnerable to the black of the night, my breath became shallow. My stupid ghost story began to play at the back of my mind. What if I run into him, that guy? Nobody knows where I am really; I don’t, even. I’d just disappear. Be gone forever. Just as I stopped again, I was hit with a sense of dejavu. I’ve been here before. I turned my head to the right, looking, searching in the darkness for my car. It was here. I had parked it just over there. Just where the light didn’t reach. Turning, I moved towards the darkness gliding through the night. The darkness beckoned me towards it. I stepped towards it, letting it consume me, in the hope that my car would be right there. Everything became still. Silent. The light was gone.

The church bells chimed.

It had been six months since Julie and Frank escaped from the city and moved south, yet they were yet to feel like they belonged. Frank was tasked by his company’s Social Sciences Department with providing an investigation into the pro-slavery views still held in southern USA and took the opportunity with both hands. He drove down to Alabama with his wife, optimistic about the change in scenery and lifestyle. After watching the film Groundhog Day, Frank was aghast at his recognition of his own life, and realised he needed a change. He could’ve easily been living the same year on repeat without noticing.

Every day followed the same monotonous, pendulum-like schedule. He would arrive at the office at 8:30 am, and each day passed in the same grey blur with rarely a memorable moment. As he left the office around 5:15 pm Frank often stopped to watch a piece of artwork located in the foyer of the building. He didn’t consider himself philosophical, and made no time in his life for the grey area between yes and no. However, this artwork seemed to resonate with him for some unknown reason. A copper pipe slowly dripped out water onto a smooth piece of black slate, and over his extended tenure at the company he noticed a slight divot appear in the stone. Cringing somewhat, Frank allowed himself to draw comparisons between the stone and his tedious life. Each day seemed to scrape away some indistinguishable layer of Frank’s being, slowly whittling him down, day by day.

Frank was sent to Fairhope, a seaside town with a population of just 3 000. He had done extensive research in preparation for the investigation, and knew Fairhope clung onto its confederate roots deeply. Contrastingly, Frank was proud to be a volunteer for the Democratic Party, and found his progressive political stance often being the subject of conversations. He wisely vowed to keep his support of the Democrats private for the sake of the investigation.

From the second Frank and Julie rolled into town the scale of the task reared up in front of them. Driving down the main street, Republican flags were proudly affixed to the front of each house as far as the eye could see, stretching off into the distance in a red-tinted mirage.

Over the next six months, Frank conducted meticulous investigative work into the reasons for the town’s conservative beliefs, often conducting surveys and interviews with the townspeople on their political views. Shockingly, he discovered over the course of his investigation a framed Confederate flag hanging proudly in the town hall. Though most of the townspeople were amicable, Frank sensed that they were still wary about the motivations behind his continual badgering for information. “Maybe they hate us because we don’t parade that vile flag on our house,” Frank said to Julie exasperatedly one night after an exhausting, fruitless day.

The repetitiousness of Frank’s life seemed to be returning, a dark shadow slowly creeping under his door during long days at his desk or into his car after another dead-end interview. However, one mundane day the secret that he had worked so hard to keep was suddenly exposed. The morning had proceeded unsuccessfully, with an interview in which only one of the four invited townspeople showed up. However, by mid-day, a rumour had suddenly gripped Fairhope and was spreading like wildfire: that Frank was secretly a strong supporter of the Democrats. The rumour became more and more egregious, and by supper half the town believed Frank was related to Franklin D. Roosevelt and that he regularly participated in Democratic marches, sacrilege to a small Republican town.

All the rapport that Frank worked tirelessly to build up with the citizens of Fairhope was immediately decimated. He began to be heckled in public and even had a brick thrown through his car window, with a note attached. It read: If you knew what was good for you youd leeve before a brick goes through yore head. The hostility of the townspeople toward Frank and his wife was palpable, yet they were undeterred, and continued steadily on their mission to gather what information they could.

What shred of connection to the townspeople that Frank still clung on to was damaged beyond repair less than a week later. In the dead of the night, an unidentified anarchist had travelled across town and torn down nearly all the Republican flags. Some red and white shreds of cloth remained on the flagpoles, waving melancholically in the wind. Further still, the flags had been piled up outside the town hall and set alight. An acrid smoke wafted through the town and glowing embers of the torn flags danced in the wind. The Confederate flag had been smashed out of its frame in the town hall and added to the bonfire. The town was in uproar, and blame immediately shifted to Frank, solely because he was the lone publicly exposed Democrat in Fairhope.

The Fairhope Reporter saw red and began printing salacious news articles about Frank and Julie’s supposed deliberate move to the town to brew chaos and upset the Republican stronghold. ANTI-AMERICAN DEMOCRAT SPY DEFILES FLAGS was the headline in a particular sensationalist piece which quickly permeated to all corners of the town. Frank’s face, alongside Julie’s, was plastered in shopfronts and on noticeboards, and overnight the couple became the villains of Fairhope. Their reputation lay in tatters and though they had committed no wrongdoing, the volume of news articles printed about them forced the belief that they burnt the flags. The real culprit remained at large, and yet no article was printed about them.

The next morning, Frank and Julie’s house was empty. The door was slightly ajar, creaking in the wind, and all trace of them had disappeared. They simply packed their things and vanished, away from the wild southern life, back to the comfort and security that monotony provided.

The dismal city of Veridia withered under the weight of oppression and misery. Once a thriving young city, it was killed by the cancer that was corruption and overt police control. The persistently gloomy sky and seemingly relentless rain reflected the drab mood that pervaded the people who lived in this dire society. The binary lives of Neid and Gier intersect in this desolate backdrop as they deal with their sins and the unsettling sensation of being chased by unknown entities.

Neid stepped out from under the frayed canopy of his rundown apartment building on Geeters Lane. “Damned weather,” he muttered as he pulled his jacket over head to keep dry. His worn shoes hit the cracked bitumen road as he looked up, the road only illuminated by a few scattered lamp posts, and he started his routine walk. He made this walk every night, to his nightshift as a cleaner in the court of, what his society deemed, ‘justice’. He felt into his pocket, almost by habit, to feel for the safety of his prized possession. The one source of happiness in his bleak life where he was stuck marching to the beat of the drum of the ‘upper’ class. Yet, to call it ‘his’ possession was an exaggeration, Neid thought ironically. He had stolen the cherished item from a pompous judge at the court of justice where he worked. He knew that it was wrong to steal, but he had felt an overwhelming sense of envy, of sin. It didn’t seem fair that the judge could own something worth months of average wages, he thought, so he took it for himself. Yet his normal sense of comfort when holding the item was missing. Instead, he felt his heart quicken.

The sky seemed to turn a tinge of green and he felt his blood run cold and the hair stand up on the back of his neck. That altogether unsettling feeling that something was watching him. Neid caught glimpses of what it was in his peripherals. A shadow of a snake, slithering along the ground and across the walls of the surrounding buildings. He couldn’t look at it directly, but he could sense it was there, and it was following him. Neid muttered nervously, “Pull yourself together.” However, despite himself, he quickened his pace. The street he walked was a graveyard. Empty and barren. Without a soul or friendly face in sight.  That was except for the faces in the newspapers, littered on the floor and stuck on every surface possible, staring right back at him. One flew by and caught his eye. The front page read:

Court of Justice Guard’s Wife Sentenced to Life Behind Bars on Suspicion of Terrorism. Judge Gier States, “I Know She’s a Terrorist!”

BANG … BANG … BANG. The gavel sounded lazily onto the wooden block. “Order, Order in the court!” Judge Gier shouted half-heartedly. The members of the gallery had just erupted into conversation as the woman in question, the guard’s wife, entered the court. Handcuffed and restrained, she was guided to her seat. Beside her sat the government appointed lawyer for her defence because, of course, she couldn’t afford her own. “Peasantry,” Gier murmured to himself and the sergeant at arms beside him who nodded in return, eager to impress. “Right, shall we get started then?” Gier threw the rhetorical question to the court room. “Good. So, Mrs … guard,” he said jokingly, “How do you plead?”

“Innocent, your Honour,” the appointed lawyer replied.

“Of course, they’re always innocent aren’t they,” he muttered, annoyed the case would now take longer for him to inevitably rule guilty, as he always did. Earlier in the day, as Judge Gier stepped into the limousine that was pulling out of what he called his ‘humble house’, which in reality was a three-story villa, his eyes met with a man he had become accustomed to. The same man who had been in the same limousine, every day, since Gier had earned his spot as the Judge in Veridia. The man would simply say to him one of two words: “Innocent” or “Guilty”. This morning, the man had said, “Guilty”, left a paper bag with a large sum of money, and climbed out of the limousine. But that morning was different. Gier had read the newspaper the night before and the important headlines of the arrest of the suspected working class ‘terrorist’. He knew the man in that limousine would want a guilty verdict and so, he had pushed his luck. He had asked for more money.

Judge Gier went through the motions of the trial without really paying attention, smirking, and thinking about the jewellery he would buy his girlfriends with the money he was given. As the proceedings went on and he said what he had to, his gaze drifted across the crowd in the gallery. To his surprise, he saw the man from the limousine sitting there, watching him. Gier darted his eyes back to the spot where he saw the man, but he was gone. The lights in the courtroom seemed to glow more yellow and his heart missed a beat. He sensed someone was watching him and could see out of the corner of his eye, the shadow of a toad on the wall behind him. Unnerved, the Judge stopped the proceedings with a wave of his hand and delivered his decision. “Guilty of murder in the first degree that constitutes an act of terrorism. The defendant will serve life in prison, without the possibility of parole,” he said, nonchalantly. “Sergeant at arms, take her away.”  When asked by the local newspaper the reason for his decision, Judge Gier merely stated, “I know she is a terrorist.”

The man walked out of the courtroom, seeming to blend with the shadows in the dark of the night. He made his way to his non-descript lodging on the fringes of the city and looked at his desk. The man removed his long, dark trench coat and put it on the back of his desk chair. As he sat down, he sighed, poured himself a drink, and said to no one in particular, “Long day.” The man removed his badge and gun and placed them on the table, flicking on the lamp as he did so. He opened the file that sat on his desk. Within it read:

Neid – class: lower/working. Relationship status: single. Address: Geeters Lane, poor neighbourhood. Relatives: grandmother (Ex KPD, estranged from other family and friends. Crimes: thievery only. Personality: envious of the rich, decision: guilty of terrorism 

Gier – class: upper. Relationship status: four girlfriends. Address: three story villa, centre of rich neighbourhood. Relatives: brother (doctor). Crimes: none. Personality: corrupt, will do anything for money, avarice. Decision: too consumed by greed, not loyal, make disappear

As the man added the decision for Gier to the report, the lamp threw a shadow on the pages. The shadow of his body. A shadow that shifted from human, to snake, to toad. Always watching. Ever in control.

As the first hue of dawn pierced the veil of darkness, warriors rose from rest, from their dark and muddy confines. The trenches scattered across the landscape like scars, witness to the harsh reality of war. A reality that had consumed the lives and souls, and many more to come. Dawn marked yet another excruciating day, derived of the heroic actions that would take life, but ultimately conserve the lives of those they loved most. A seemingly endless game of tug of war, it saw territory gained and lost by both sides.

The heavy footsteps echoed down the Afghani trench, bouncing off the sandbags that marked the entry to hell, the start of no man’s land. For the soldiers, these were more than just footsteps, for these were the footsteps which determined life or death, with a piercing blow, the much dreaded though anticipated screech of General Carr’s whistle. “Go, Go, Go,” he demanded of his warriors. Without hesitation the men scrambled out and clawed at the muddy trench walls, rifles in one hand, the other desperately hauling their beaten and bruised carcasses over the top. Fear wasn’t an option, for they had entered no man’s land. Wave after wave of soldiers followed, driving their body forward, desperate to gain every inch, bullets whirred and whipped, engulfing the men. James was one of the lucky ones, for he had managed to reach a crater formed by an allied F16 fighter jet as it had performed one of many low fly-bys in an attempt of demolishing the enemy’s frontline.

James grabbed, scraped and flailed his shovel out the dirt, hoping to dig in and establish a stronghold. Many weren’t as lucky. He glanced back at waves of men behind him, bodies flailed as lead pierced them like a knife through butter. His mind scattered, his heart raced, adrenaline had begun to subside, and was replaced by reality, the reality that had engulfed his comrades with lead and shrapnel, a product of the Taliban’s automatic AK-47 rifle. Though it was outdated compared to the allies much newer and technologically fully advanced M-6s, the sheer volume of the thousands of Al-Qaeda fighters made up for it, and more. James was faced with the most important decision of his life, rescue the fallen at risk of his own life or continue to return fire at the enemy, at the expense of his mates. This was a decision he shouldn’t have to make, in a country he shouldn’t be in, in a conflict that wasn’t his to fight, though this decision was no rarity in the Nabai province in Afghanistan. He had no time to think. Silence. Blackness.

An enemy mortar had landed at the mouth of his refuge, instantly killing a dozen or more. He couldn’t hear, his eardrum shattered in the explosion. He rubbed wearily, desperate to free the filth buried in his eyes. Flailing for his rifle, he grabbed it. Confusion haunted him. Once more overcome by adrenaline, James pulled himself together; the decision had been made for him. With an enemy mortar locked on his position, advancing beyond his muddy anchorage was suicide. He must turn back. Turn back he did, although not bearing a white flag or a face full of mercy, bearing his M6 rifle, a tourniquet he had recovered from his decimated SAS issued cargo pants. He drove forward, one step after another, his boots plunging into the torn earth. Seconds felt like hours; his head held low to avoid the relentless Al-Qaeda rifle fire, he grabbed his corporal’s butchered arm.

James roared in agony as he slung his comrade over his shoulder, an agony short lived. Dozens of rounds of lead plunged into his torso, finally succumbing him to a round that pierced his heart. For this had sealed the phrase he had heard before, “Learn to be silent. Let your mind listen and absorb.” It had been repeated endlessly back at camp – in essence it meant, every man for himself. A quote that didn’t resonate with James, which led him to his ultimate demise. A true hero. A warrior.